


Movie Night

by dylovan



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:46:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dylovan/pseuds/dylovan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Preklok-era Murderface and Skwisgaar have an awkward movie night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Movie Night

_We're not gonna make it  
No, no!  
We're not gonna make it_

_'Cause there's a million better bands  
With a million better songs  
Singers who can drum  
And singers who can sing_

_But deep in my heart,  
I do believe..._

~~~

William Murderface was curled up on the couch in front of the TV. It was just showing Friends reruns, so he wasn't paying attention to it; his focus was directed toward the GameBoy in his hands. He had a bag of M&M's on the couch beside him, and his left hand darted back and forth between the bag and his mouth and the GameBoy while his right hand steadily mashed buttons. 

In the distance there was the sound of yelling and things being thrown. Dethklok had converted a back room in their shitty little duplex into a "studio." Magnus, Nathan, and Pickles were holed up in there, trying to work out a setlist for the upcoming weekend's gig. As usual, it wasn't going so well. 

Murderface mostly ignored the shouting. He was used to it, from Dethklok, from the roommates he'd had before he moved in with the band, from his grandparents. But part of him wanted it to stop. And, even more weirdly, part of him wanted to be part of it. 

The three songwriters were always at each other's throats about creative differences. Murderface knew that, if he actually tried, he could write music. At least, he thought he knew. But it was better to not try at all than to try and fail; that way, he could blame it on his laziness rather than him being too dumb to write a song. 

It was probably good Murderface wasn't back in the studio with the rest of them, anyway. He'd probably whoop all their asses, he thought. They were lucky he didn't want to write songs. 

"Hey, what ams you playings?"

Murderface looked up. It was Skwisgaar Skwigelf, lugging along his Gibson Explorer and looking sleepy as usual, even though it wasn't even 9 PM yet, with messy hair like he'd just crawled out of bed. He was wearing a Yngwie Malmsteen T-shirt that hung loosely on his slender frame. 

Murderface ate another M&M. "Link'sh Awakening."

Skwisgaar flopped onto the worn-out couch beside Murderface. "Pff, I beats that game years ago."

"Yeah, well, I jusht got it. So you can rein that attitude in a little bit."

Skwisgaar snuck some of the bassist's candy. "Who crapped in your cornsflakes, Moiderface? Cheer up. Nosbody likes a Debbie Downer."

Murderface rolled his eyes. "Oh my god, leave me alone! I'm buschy!"

"Yeah, busy suckings at this game." Skwisgaar took some more M&M's. 

Murderface threw the GameBoy down on the couch. "What do you want, Shkwishgaar?"

"Oh my gods, you forgot again? It's movies night!" Skwisgaar said. 

"Oh. Right," said Murderface. 

Movie night was a tradition with the two youngest members of the band. Every Thursday night, while Magnus, Nathan, and Pickles argued over the setlist for the weekend gigs, Murderface and Skwisgaar would pick some movies to watch all night and distract them from the hissy fits everyone was throwing in the studio. Pickles had a huge collection of VHS tapes that he let anyone pick through, so they'd borrow movies from him. 

Skwisgaar got up. "C'mon, let's go."

"Help me up, my legsh are ashleep."

Skwisgaar looked confused. "Legs ams asleeps?"

"Yeah."

"How can your legs be asleeps and not the rest of you?"

Murderface realized that the Swede didn't know half the expressions he used. "You know, when you're schitting down for a long time and your legsh go all tingly and it hurtsch. That'sh having your legsh fall ashleep."

"Oh." Skwisgaar grabbed Murderface's hands and yanked him to his feet. "Hey, Moiderface, I think your brains ams asleep."

Murderface rolled his eyes. "C'mon. Let'sh find shomething to watch."

They came into Pickles' room. It was dark, and just as shitty as the rest of the house, with the addition of some psychedelic Black Sabbath, Jimi Hendrix, and Grateful Dead posters covering the cracks in the drywall. It smelled like weed and pizza. The bed was unmade and there were dirty plates all over. 

"When's Pickle ever gonna cleans this place up?" Skwisgaar complained. 

"If I know him ash well ash I think I do, the anshwer ish never." Murderface pulled the box of VHS tapes out from under Pickles' bed. "C'mon, let'sh get thish over with."

How it worked was each of them picked a few movies, then they'd eliminate them until there were a couple left that they'd both be willing to watch. They both quickly made a pile of movies. 

"Alright," Murderface said, "how's thish?" He held up a tape. 

Skwisgaar looked at it. "The Shinings?" he said. "I don't wants to watch that."

"Oh come on, it'sh a classhic!" Murderface urged. "Jack Nicholshon!"

"I don't want your Jack Nickles-in!"

Murderface sighed and put the movie back. It was Skwisgaar's turn. The Swede showed Murderface his movie. Murderface groaned. "Not Lord of the Ringsh again!"

"Please? Prettys please with a cherry on the top?"

"No way! Three timesh ish enough, Shkwishgaar," Murderface said. 

In the end, they picked out two movies to watch: Wayne's World and Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. They ended up falling back on these kinds of movies a lot, since Skwisgaar mostly liked long boring fantasy movies and Murderface mostly liked long boring horror movies and the only real overlap in tastes they had was in comedy. 

They went back to the living room and organized everything and got enough pillows and blankets, then went to the kitchen. Skwisgaar got the slushie maker out. Murderface made popcorn. 

They made it all the way through Wayne's World. They took a short break between movies, as usual. Skwisgaar left to take a piss and Murderface stole his blanket. They were both feeling rather sleepy. Then the inevitable occurred, just like it did every Thursday: one of the three songwriters blew up. 

A door slammed from the studio. Murderface looked around. Oh, gods...Magnus Hammersmith stormed down the hall, cursing under his breath, through the living room and toward the front door. His brown hair was in a mess and blood trickled down from his nose to his mouth. He looked around for his boots. 

Nathan came down the hall, followed closely by Pickles the drummer, who had the beginnings of a black eye. His dreadlocks were askew, falling down around his face. 

"Where do you think you're going?" Nathan said. 

"Out," Magnus snarled, shoving his feet into uncooperative boots. 

"Out _where_?" Nathan said. 

"None of your fucking business!" Magnus yelled. "You can't stop me! You're not the boss of me!"

"You can't leave the house, or—"

"Or what?" Magnus spat. "You'll ground me?!" His eyes were wide and mad with fury. Nathan sighed, unable to think of a reply. 

Pickles butted in. "You're jest scared!"

"Scared?" Magnus laughed haughtily. "Scared of you? Scared of some jumped-up little balding Irish douchebag with a Napoleon complex? Yeah, fuckin' right." He looked around for his keys. 

"You got a little somethin' on your face," Pickles said. "Oh, right, it's blood. From when I punched you."

"You call that a punch? You hit like a girl. If I hit you, you'd be shitting out teeth for a week after!"

"Oh, yeah? Then come at me!"

Magnus snarled and launched himself at the drummer. Pickles flung a dinner plate at Magnus. It shattered above his head. The two were about to rip each other's throats out when Nathan grabbed them and yanked them apart. 

"Both of you, shut the fuck up," Nathan said. They did, albeit with resentment. "Magnus, you can get out," Nathan said. "But don't expect us to listen to your suggestions for the set lists this weekend."

"What? You can't tell me that! You need my input!"

"You can apologize," Nathan said, "or you can get out."

Magnus made his choice. He shrugged his coat on. "Fine, but don't expect me to cover for you when you make mistakes! I'm sticking to what's written down, I'm not improvising. You'll see how shitty you sound without me saving your asses and you'll come crawling back—"

"Be back by two," Nathan said. 

"Fuck! I hate you so fucking much!" The door slammed shut. 

Most of the tension dissipated from the room. Skwisgaar snuck in with his arms full of blankets and hid on the couch beside the silent Murderface. 

Nathan turned around to Pickles, gaze immobilizing him like a bug being pinned down by an entomologist to a bit of paper.

"It—it was all his fault!" Pickles stammered. "He keeps yelling at me for messin' up when I'm doing perfectly fine!"

"Pickles, I know you're not, uh, innocent. I can see you making faces at him and trying to get him to spaz out."

Pickles' face reddened like it always did when he tried to lie. He shrunk away. "No, I never did!" he whined. 

"I'm not angry at you, Pickles. I'm not angry at either of you."

Pickles grabbed a beer out of the fridge and twisted the cap off with his teeth. 

"Really, I'm not. Just...could you try to mellow out a bit?" Nathan asked. 

"I don't wanna be mellow. I'm not a mellow guy."

"I know, just...do it for the band, okay?" Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. "If we're gonna do this we have to be a cohesive, like, thing. We have to do our best to get along."

Pickles glared down at his shoes, arms crossed over his scrawny chest. Then he looked up into Nathan's snake-green eyes. "Okay. For the band."

"Thank you. God, I have to talk to Magnus. He never listens..."

"D'you really think he's gonna be back by two?" Pickles downed half his drink in one gulp. 

"No. Well, probably not. He's got like, whatever you call it. Oppositional defiance thingy. I need to talk to him."

Pickles pounded one tiny fist into the palm of the other hand. "I'd like ta give him a good talkin' to, alright..."

Nathan's stomach growled. He looked in the fridge. It was nearly empty. Friday's gig had better go off without a hitch..."Hey, Pickles, you want some ice for your eye?"

"Oh, yeah. Thanks, dood."

Nathan emptied the ice cube tray into a Ziploc bag. "You know it's getting bad when _I'm_ the voice of reason around here," he growled. "We need to find a manager."

"Right," Pickles said. "None of us are really good with money, or breakin' up fights...Well, Friday's gonna be pretty big, right? Big place, lotsa people, lotsa exposure. Maybe we'll find someone there."

"Yeah. Maybe someone will just come up to us, like, and sign us to their company. And then we'll all be rich and famous. And we'll live in a fucking mansion." Nathan laughed. "And people will write slash fiction about us."

"Hey, it could happen, dood." Pickles pressed the ice to his eye gratefully and winced. "Keep dreamin'." He looked over at Murderface and Skwisgaar, who were both hiding under the blankets. "Hey, what're you two looking at?"

"Um, nothings," Skwisgaar said. He and Murderface both turned around. As Pickles and Nathan continued their talk about song lyrics or whatever, the guitarist and the bassist went back to their movies. 

"Okay." Murderface took the List out of his vest pocket. The List was simply a list of all the movies they'd watched together, and beside them both the bandmates' ratings. It was getting pretty long. They'd been doing this for a while. Murderface retrieved a pencil from the dark crumb-filled abyss of his pocket as well. "Wayne's...World," he read out loud as he wrote. "What would you say?"

"Well, I likeds the use of Rob Lowe's characster as a metaphor for the destructive nature of capitals-ism, and the questioningly exkistential natures of the ending. Seven outs of tens."

"The chick had nicshe boobsh. Eight point five." He scribbled down the two ratings. "Alright, wanna watch the nexsht one now?"

"Ams soundings good."

"You guys wanna beer?" Pickles yelled over. This was his roundabout way of apologizing for snapping at them. 

"Sure," Murderface yelled. Pickles got them a beer. Murderface put in the second movie and sat back beside Skwisgaar. They turned out the lights and snuggled up in their blankets. 

Nathan and Pickles returned to the studio. 

The band was beginning to develop into groups. Nathan and Pickles always worked well together, and they could both come up with some pretty good lyrics, although Pickles preferred to just concentrate on his drumming rather than mess around with words. Skwisgaar and Murderface had grouped together; they had almost nothing in common but got along strangely well and were bonded by their shared nihilistic all-encompassing hatred of the world. Magnus wrote his own songs and didn't like working with anyone else. 

It was pretty good. It was just a shame they were so divided, although no one except Nathan seemed to care that much. Nathan was always insisting that they work as a team. However, Nathan was out of their hair now, and there was nothing except their movies to concentrate on. 

But they didn't even do a good job of that. Neither Murderface nor Skwisgaar were very good at staying awake.

Murderface had kept running back and forth to the fridge for beer. He was pretty drunk now, and so was Skwisgaar. He yawned and leaned on the taller man's shoulder. 

Skwisgaar prepared to flinch but found that he didn't mind that much. Maybe he'd been too long without having a girl, and maybe he was rather drunk, but he didn't mind cuddling with the bassist. 

Skwisgaar picked up the case for the Wayne's World tape. "Look," he said, pointing at the cover. "Ams us."

Murderface focused on it and chuckled. "Yeah. You jusht need glasshesh." 

"Hey, Nathan's got the glasses for readings, don't he?"

"Hey, yeah. Where are they?..."

They searched for the glasses and found them on the coffee table, then returned to the couch. Skwisgaar put the black-framed Ray-Bans on. They were too big, and slipped down his nose a bit. He giggled. "Partys on, dudes!" he said. 

"Incredible," Murderface said with a gap-toothed smile. Skwisgaar actually looked pretty cute with the glasses on. 

Cute? _Cute?_ Had he really just thought that about Skwisgaar? God, he was drunker than he thought. 

"Everything ams looks all big," Skwisgaar said. He blinked, his blue eyes huge. 

"Hey, lemme try thoshe on," Murderface said. He started taking the glasses off Skwisgaar, then paused and stared into his eyes. Murderface frowned and bit his lip. He quickly yanked the glasses away from Skwisgaar and jammed them onto his own face. 

"Hey, was you—" Skwisgaar began.

"How do I look?" Murderface said. "Hey. I'm Nathan Exshploshion." He did a terrible death growl. "Death, blood, murder! We have to get along!"

Skwisgaar laughed. "Ams accurate," he said. "And a prettys good looks on you, actuallys." He messed with Murderface's frizzy hair a bit and nodded to himself. 

"You really think sho?"

"Yeah. Ams nerdy but ironic, you knows?"

"What're you goin' on about?" Murderface said, smiling and shaking his head. He took the glasses off and tossed them over his shoulder, then cuddled back up to Skwisgaar, who was strangely receptive to being cuddled tonight. 

"Ams tired," Skwisgaar said, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

"Me too," Murderface said. He played with a strand of the guitarist's silky blond hair. 

"Hey, Moiderface. Was...was you going to kiss me back theres?"

"No!" Murderface said. "No, that'sh grossh! I washn't!" He backed away from Skwisgaar a tiny bit, just to prove his point.

"Reallies?"

"Yeah," Murderface said, "yeah, really. I'm not gay or whatever."

"I wouldn't mind," Skwisgaar said. 

"Huh?"

"If you kisseds me." The guitarist looked over, eyes frank. He was talking in such a weirdly casual way, like he was just discussing the weather instead of putting on the table an offer that would drive William Murderface crazy and make him flush with embarrassment. "I would be okays with that, just so you knows."

Murderface's eyes narrowed. "You're jusht fucking with me," he said. "I can tell."

"No, I ams not! Look, I'll proves it." Before the bassist could protest, Skwisgaar wound his hand through the younger man's messy hair and pulled him in close to quickly kiss him on the mouth. 

Murderface's eyes closed and he froze in place. He thought he felt the earth move. 

Then Skwisgaar was breaking the sloppy kiss off, but he still had one slender, pale hand playing in Murderface's dirty hair. The bassist desperately wished he could go back in time and take a shower and shave, and maybe put something nice on. This was the first time anyone had ever kissed him. 

Skwisgaar blinked up at Murderface. The bassist looked terrified, eyes huge like a deer in headlights. 

"I tolds you," he purred. "And you smells funny. Take a showers somestime maybe."

"I—uh—um—" Murderface was cut off by Skwisgaar kissing him _again_. Apparently the first time hadn't somehow been some accident. 

The second time lasted longer, and the bassist got the chance to curl up in the guitarist's arms, where it was warm and nothing really mattered. His mind went all hot and flustered and anxious. Skwisgaar tasted like blue raspberry slushies and tangy sweat. His hair tickled Murderface's cheek and made him blink. He ventured to slide his tongue between Skwisgaar's lips. He'd heard somewhere that you were supposed to do that when kissing...christ, he was kissing a guy. Did he even like guys? He didn't think he was gay but he didn't want to stop, even though he was afraid. 

After a minute or so of this, their teeth clashed together awkwardly and Murderface pulled away. Skwisgaar started laughing and the bassist looked mortally offended. 

"No, ams not you," Skwisgaar said. "Ams just...I don't know. Strange skituation."

The bassist laughed a bit too, although it was really just to relieve his nervousness more than anything else. Skwisgaar pulled Murderface back so they were kind of cuddled together and continued watching the movie. He looked completely unfazed by this. 

"Sho...you don't think I'm grossh?" Murderface asked doubtfully. 

"You're gross," Skwisgaar said. "But I'ms gross too. Okay?"

"I'm confushed..." He gave up and leaned against the guitarist. This was totally weird. He didn't know what he was supposed to do next. He'd imagined his first kiss before but he'd always thought it would be somewhere nice, on a date with a cute girl, not watching dumb movies in the messy living room while drunk with his bandmate. He didn't feel as grossed out as he would've thought. Kissing Skwisgaar was kind of nice, honestly. 

"Is cool," Skwisgaar said. "You ams nots a very good kisser, though. Maybe you just needs some practice." He smirked in what he thought was a subtle manner. 

This made Murderface all nervous over again. He tried to hide his face under the covers and said, "So...did you ever do thish before?"

"Do whats?"

"Kissh, uh, kissh another dude."

"Oh, couple time," Skwisgaar said. "At parties and stuffs. I don'ts minds it."

"I never did," Murderface said. "I'm not gay or shomething, you know," he said, but he didn't move from where he was, huddled up quite close to the Swede. 

"How was it?"

"Um, pretty good I guessh."

"I'ms a goods kisser."

Murderface silently agreed. Skwisgaar yawned, and solved the problem of what to do next by falling asleep.

Murderface tried to stay awake, he really did. But it was hard to watch a whole movie when you were warm and cozy and drunk and full of popcorn without simply falling asleep...

His head dropped forward to rest against Skwisgaar's chest. He slouched over and his eyes closed. They both snored quietly while the bright lights from the movie flashed over their inert forms. Both of them had nothing but pleasant dreams that night. 

~~~

In the wee hours of the morning, the other three band members stumbled into the duplex, quite hammered and pretty stoned. Pickles and Nathan had run into Magnus at a bar. Now that they were intoxicated and the topic wasn't about music, they didn't really have anything to fight over, so they actually got along. The three of them stared at the sleeping band members on the living room couch. 

Nathan stumbled against Magnus, who gave him a halfhearted little push. "Look at 'em," Nathan growled/slurred. "Like a couple'a angels. Gross, snoring, gay angels."

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?" Pickles asked the other two.

Magnus dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed the spark by stepping on it. "Let's draw dicks on their faces."

They found some permanent markers in a drawer. Ten minutes later, their artwork was complete. Murderface's and Skwisgaar's faces were covered in dicks, tits, and phrases like FAGET and CHODE and I SUCK WANGZ. Pickles had been feeling creative; some of the dicks had little angel wings. 

Satisfied with this, Nathan, Magnus, and Pickles went off to their respective bedrooms and passed out guiltlessly.

**Author's Note:**

> The song lyrics are from _We Are Not Going to Make It_ by The Presidents of The United Stares of America.


End file.
